Compared to the American accents heard on Friends, the English accent
is a blessing, says Michael Deacon.

When I meet someone for the first time, the same question always comes up. "You're from Scotland," they say. "So how come you've got an English accent?" Telling them isn't easy. When I was a toddler – as I've blushingly admitted in this column before – I was addicted to a cassette of nursery rhymes recited by children with the most frightfully frightful English accents. Addicted to such an extent, in fact, that I ended up with the most frightfully frightful English accent myself.

But perhaps I'm not so unusual. More and more often I hear ways in which other people parrot the speech of TV and radio stars. We all know that those under 35 unwittingly mimic characters in Australian soaps by speaking as if every statement were a question: their voices go up at the end? Like this?

Less commonly noted, though, is the influence of sports reporters and weathermen. Wrapping up a bulletin, both types of presenter have a habit of slowing for cheery emphasis at the end of… their closing... sentence. I now hear this echoed everywhere, from meetings at work ("And finally… some great shots… of Obama") to train announcements ("Now standing… at platform… four"). I half expect the speaker to follow this by chirping, "And that's all from me. Back to you in the studio, Huw."

As for telling jokes, most men think they're hosting Have I Got News for You. Voice rises for the set-up… and goes down for the punchline. For sarcasm, there's the Clarkson impression. So every third word. Is emphasised. By thick italics.

Then there's Friends, the television hit of the Nineties. When I was at school, all the boys spoke like Chandler ("Could this style of speech be any more annoying?"), and all the girls adopted Phoebe's kooky sing-song. So there's some comfort. I may have the wrong accent, but at least I don't talk like a newsreader.

I'll be back with more on that story in our 10 o'clock bulletin.

Apparently councils are to be given powers to stop shops selling cheap booze. The hope is that this will reduce binge drinking. That hope, though, rests on the notion that people get drunk mainly because it's cheap. I'm not sure this is true. In a supermarket in Spain last summer I saw bottles of wine on sale for 99c (86p). Yet I didn't see anyone rolling around the streets drunk, threatening passers-by or throwing up.

People drink to excess for any number of reasons: boredom, depression, peer pressure, stupidity… These problems are hard for those in authority to solve, though. Much easier, if your chief aim is to make it look as if you're doing something, just to insist shops raise the price of booze.

On Saturday, the Guardian ran a sequence it had commissioned of "royal portraits". The irreverence of the works (Prince Harry as a stuffed baboon, a bust of the Queen moulded from chip fat) was matched by the tone of the artists' comments. "The Queen is an obvious affront to those of us who believe our leaders should be democratically elected," said one. "The wealth and power of the Royal family should be hard-earned, not inherited," said another.

Suppose Her Majesty were turfed out, and the nation advertised for an elected head of state. What would we seek? Well, we'd want someone who was liked by the public and respected abroad. Someone with discretion, experience, no divisive political bias. Oh, and a spotless private life.

After all the expense and uproar involved in abolishing the monarchy and organising elections for a new head of state, I suspect we'd find that the most popular candidate to replace the Queen would be... the Queen.